Out Of Control
by Annalore
Summary: When Punk feels like he's losing control, John looks out for him. Punk/Cena, slash.


**Note**: I know I haven't posted an update to The Winding Road this week. I am working on it, I promise.

**Warning**: Contains themes of submission and dominance.

* * *

A lot of the time, you swear management is winding you up on purpose, getting you good and mad so you deliver your best, and this whole day has felt like one of those times, except with unintended results. Usually, you go out there and kill it, but tonight you just died, and missing that catharsis, the anger and frustration still cling to you.

John finds you in the dressing room after the show. Normally, you'd be glad to see him, but now you just want to be alone and you almost tell him to leave, but then he fixes you with a look that you can feel straight to your erratically beating heart. He's always known you so well, known what you need well before you ever do.

"Get up and come with me," he demands, and despite how it goes against the grain, you do as he says.

You do everything he says. When he tells you to get into his car, you do. When he tells you to stop fiddling with your phone, you do. If he asked you to give him head while he was driving, you probably would. For this part, at least, you're completely and utterly docile. You follow him into your hotel room, stand in the middle of the room and wait as he closes the door and puts your bags down.

Finally, he stands in front of you, hooks one of your belt loops in his hand, then hesitates as if he's unsure of what to do next. It's maddening. This is all you need in your life, more uncertainty, another decision you have to be the one to make, but you want to do it anyway, want to plow under his will and supplant it with your own.

"Tell me what you want me to do," you say, as a compromise to yourself, to him. Remind him that he is completely in control of you.

"Shut up," he says, his eyes hardening. "Just shut up and fuck me."

You feel the words flow through you, sink into your gut. It's a command, but oh, is it ever one you want to obey. He could do anything with you right now, but this goes down so easy. You point to the dresser next to the TV, and he turns and stands in front of it. You hear him draw in a breath and let it out slowly as you approach him.

"Make it hard," he says as you reach into the pocket of his baggy jeans to find that, yes, he does already have the lube in there.

You can't help grinding into his ass as you pull back. He could punish you for that, but he takes you to a place where you're out of control and it feels okay to be that way. If you do something wrong, you know it and it's dealt with, it's over. There's no passive-aggressive bullshit. If punishment comes, then it comes, but this time it doesn't. He just places his palms on the dresser, braces himself as he bends over.

You don't bother to do much more than shove his pants and yours out of the way before you get down to business. You use the lube, but not much, and as you push into him you feel such exquisite friction, you wish you could do away with even that. His shoulders bunch and his breath hitches, but he doesn't say a word.

You pull almost all the way out, then push back in, and that sob of his, that breathy, choked sob, reminds you of the anger you feel, the hard-edged, sharp pointed _anger_ that you have inside you. You slam into him again, and again, just to hear that sound, until you don't even care if you're hurting him.

You don't care, until you realize that you _are _hurting him, that his fingers are white against the cherry wood, his thighs are shaking, and he's quiet, barely even grunting through gritted teeth. You falter, slow your pace—

"Don't you even think of stopping," he bites out.

And you don't, now you can't, no matter how much you might want to. But now you're aware of the tension in his body, the sound of your skin slapping against his, sliding when you connect as sweat builds between you, the chafing of your jeans, the bite of the zipper teeth against your skin.

John squeezes his ass around your dick and you gasp, surprised, as it brings you out of your head and back into the moment. You would take him in hand, jerk him off, if you knew that was allowed. You slide his hand underneath his pants instead, splay your fingers over the curve of his hip, silently asking for permission to go farther.

He doesn't give it. "I want you to come in my ass right now," he demands instead.

You're in no way used to taking orders, your body isn't tuned to it, but with one more thrust, you explode inside him, your fingers digging into his flesh, your face pressed into his back to muffle your scream.

You slump against him, breathless and drained, and he lets you for a moment, to the point where you think it might be over, he might be prepared to give you back control. You have mixed feelings about that, you're not sure if you're ready, but you can't find a way to express that to him. And then you don't have to, he's pushing you off of him and your bodies separate with an almost obscene sucking noise.

You stumble backwards, feeling confused, abandoned. You want to reach out for him, hold him close to you, but you don't. You fold your hands in front of yourself, look down, the perfect picture of obedience. You can see your come trickling down his inner thigh as he turns, and it ignites a spark of pride and ownership, but you push it down ruthlessly. Then he turns, and you see his erection, flushed and glistening with pre-cum, and you feel the sting of guilt, because isn't it your job to take care of him? Aren't you supposed to be putting him first?

"Look at me," John says. It's more of a plea than a command, but you obey as if it were. "You did good," he tells you, and you feel yourself flushing.

"I forgot about you," you protest, trying not to look down at the evidence of his lack of completion.

He shakes his head. "If that's what I wanted, I would have told you." He steps closer, until you're mere inches apart. "I want to come in your mouth," he whispers in your ear, his voice hot and seductive, and you feel a tremor pass through your body.

You have no objection to going down on him, but you can't help the way your eyes flick over to the bed for an instant. Both your knees are completely fucked up, and though you would kneel down right now if he insisted on it, you know you'd regret it afterwards.

"On the bed," he tells you as he pulls away, as though it were his idea, but you know he caught you looking. "And get undressed," he adds as an afterthought.

You kick off your shoes, take your clothes off, hardly paying attention to what you're doing because John is stripping across the room. You love to watch him; he's not just sculpted, he's beautiful. He's perfect. As he climbs onto the bed, he catches you looking, and you immediately tear your eyes away.

"Come here," he says, and you glance up to see him patting the space beside him. You approach the bed warily and lie next to him. "Let me look at you," he says.

You feel like shying away, covering yourself, as he takes in your body. You don't mind it most days, you work hard on it, but you're nothing compared to him. In some ways, this is the hardest thing he's asked of you, and you struggle not to move. Finally, when you're on the edge of breaking, he leans in and kisses you.

"Good," he says approvingly, and you feel a rush of pride in yourself. "Now get down there and suck my dick." He's smiling as he says it, an easy, relaxed tone in his voice. You're glad that, despite the little bit of torture he just put you through, he's in a pretty permissive mood tonight.

You crawl backwards down the bed, keeping eye contact with him until you reach your destination, hold it as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, lean in and press your tongue flat against the underside, drag it up to the tip in just the way you know he likes.

He arches into your touch, the sheets rustling under his body as he shifts on the bed. "Your whole mouth," he says breathlessly.

You love the way he looks when you do this. You consider saying 'screw it' and just teasing him for the rest of the night, but he might actually let you, and you don't want the consequences of that on your head.

You can't really deep throat, despite having been working on it, but you give him the best you've got. He's already so aroused from before that it takes no time at all before he's on the edge, tangling his fingers in your hair as he thrusts his hips shallowly. He's not so much holding you down as pulling you in, and you swallow more of him, take in as much as you can.

"Punk," he gasps out, giving your hair a particularly hard tug. You're not sure whether or not you're glad you grew it out when he's pulling it out by the roots. You just love the way it hurts, and you love how he's so expressive with you, how you can tell the exact moment before his body tenses up, how you can feel his release building within him and you can time your movements exactly.

You hold his hips down, relax your muscles as much as possible. You hear a surprised intake of breath from him as his cock bumps against the back of your mouth, then slides in just a little farther. A little is all he needs, and then he's pulling your hair and you're swallowing, doing everything you can to make this good for him.

As his body goes boneless beneath you, he slides his hands from your hair, down to your cheeks. You let his softening cock slide from your mouth with a pop and look up at him. He strokes your cheek with his thumb silently, and something passes between you. For the first time since before the show, you feel like yourself. In control.

You move back up the bed and lie next to him, your body pressed to his. He watches quietly to see what you'll do. His eyes are so trusting that it almost breaks your heart. You have absolutely no idea what you did to deserve his devotion.

You press a kiss to his forehead, to his cheek, to his lips. "Thank you," you whisper, because you know that sometimes the things you need from him make him uncomfortable.

He brings his hand to his chest, wraps his fingers around the dog tags he always wears, the ones that mark him as property. "Always," he answers.

In the sweetness of his smile, the sincerity of his voice, you feel a burden, but one you would gladly bear, because the weight of him keeps you grounded. The responsibility you feel to him makes you whole.

"Go to sleep, Johnny," you tell him as you settle into his arms. He wouldn't dream of disobeying.

You hold him close, because he's yours, because he'd do anything you told him, even hold you together when you're falling to pieces. Because you love him.


End file.
